


The Longest Road

by Jinsai_ish



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bottom America (Hetalia), Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), M/M, Top Canada (Hetalia), Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27781834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinsai_ish/pseuds/Jinsai_ish
Summary: Rating: R-18Warning: Future AU, Original character(s)Summary: In the future, North Korea launches a war that will re-shape the world. The United States and Canada, wrecked by nuclear attacks and plague, fall into chaos. Now, almost two decades later, people have started to turn to some of the few governmental institutions to have survived – those of the native peoples of those lands. Led by the boy from a 400-year old prophecy, they will need to carve out a new future for themselves. And Matthew and Alfred, the nations of Canada and the United States of America, will need to do the same.“Going home must be like going to render an account.” -- Joseph Conrad
Relationships: America/Canada (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Shatter

**Shatter**  
  
The breaking of the world sounds like an eggshell cracking.  
  
He feels the moon cool against his scales, slithering easily between the rocks and roots, and reflects the light back silver-bright. His tongue flickers out, tasting rain in the air, and he returns to the nest. Amidst the broken shells, he twines about his brother. He settles and sleeps, and dreams of a sun as warm and welcoming as his twin`s golden scales.  
  
It is a nice dream. They slither through tall grasses quickly, and food is easy to find, as are broad, warm rocks on which they can curl up and sun-soak. The summer sun is high, a yellow ball of fire above their resting place. It beats down upon them hotter and hotter, until even their blood seems to absorb the heat, and he hisses happily. But it doesn`t stop. The sun swells and pales and then all of a sudden there is nothing but the white hot flash and they are burning, burning and writhing on the rock that`s become an oven, silver and gold sizzling as they are scorched to ash.  
  
*  
  
Canada wakes up screaming.  
  
He screams and screams, and doesn`t know why, because the dream – nightmare – is already receding like morning dew. And yet, he can`t stop, even though his throat feels like it`s ready to bleed, and then he realizes –  
  
He can`t see.  
  
Contrary to what he would have believed possible had he been able to think about it rationally, his screams become even louder, even more panicked. He doesn`t stop even when he hears shouting, and the double time pace of running feet.  
  
“Canada, Canada, stop, please? Por favor Mateo. Dios mio, para!!”  
  
He recognizes Mexico`s voice at last, and his screams trickle to a halt, but only because he literally cannot produce any more sound. Silent sobs replace them then, and he hears his older brother murmuring a prayer to Mary as he shoves Matthew back down onto the bed. Matthew tries to lift his hands to his face, but Juan is quicker and pushes them back down, whispering soothingly in Spanish too garbled and rapid for him to follow.  
  
‘Why are you here?’ he wants to ask and ‘where is America?’, and ‘where is Kumajirou?’  
  
And perhaps his first question should be ‘why am I crying?’ but he can`t get any of the words out. He feels the coolness of something being laid over his forehead – his eyes are bandaged, he realizes belatedly. That`s why he can`t see. Something cool and moist dabs at his lips as well and he stops sobbing long enough to realize how thirsty he is, and manages to open his mouth and allow trickles of water to make their way in.  
  
He swallows what he can, and then, after Juan takes the water away, tries to steady his breathing and gather his thoughts. But even as they begin to gain coherency, Matthew feels sleep`s long, dark tentacles reaching back for him. He struggles against them at first, but Juan`s hands return, callused fingertips stroking over his cheekbone with an uncommon tenderness.  
  
“It’s all right,” he hears his brother whisper reassuringly, sounding very far away. “Sleep now. Please, just sleep.”  
  
And then Juan begins humming something, soft and hauntingly slow, and Matthew gives in, and lets himself drift back away.  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
_Por favor Mateo. Dios mio, para!_ \- “Please Matthew. My God, stop!”  
Juan is, of course, Mexico.


	2. Pieces

**Pieces**  
  
The next time Matthew awakens, he doesn`t remember any dreams and is grateful for it. He doesn`t scream this time either, but he does raise a hand to his throat instinctively, remembering how raw it had felt. It feels fine now, but he`s thirsty.  
  
He licks his lips, finding them dry and cracked, and continues to lift his hand until his fingers trace over the bandages covering his eyes. Desperately curious to see where he is, he begins to tug at them.  
  
“Mateo, stop that!”  
  
Mexico catches his hand, and even without his sight Canada recognizes his older brother`s presence immediately. He lets his hand fall limp with only the faintest sigh of frustration.  
  
Juan chuckles at that. “Okay. You`re right. It`s time to take these off. Wait a moment, all right?”  
  
Matthew grunts, flexing his hands in reply. His left one is bandaged as well. What happened? His memory is foggy, large gaps of it apparently missing. He frowns and tries to think back to the last thing he can recall, but Juan is back already, helping him sit up and pressing a glass to his lips. He drinks greedily, as much as he is allowed before his brother pulls the glass away.  
  
“That`s enough. More and you`ll make yourself sick,” Juan chides, and Matthew obeys. He has questions, but he`ll wait to ask them until the bandages are off. He wants to see his brother when he speaks to him.  
  
His breath catches when he feels Juan finally start on the bandages wrapped around his head. His brother works slowly, unwrapping them very carefully and speaking to Matt as he does so.  
  
“You have to promise me to be careful. Open your eyes slowly, otherwise you`re going to damage them. I`ve, well, I`ve dimmed the lights so you should be all right, as long as you`re slow and careful.”  
  
Matthew snorts at that. “I`m not Alfred,” he says, his voice rough with disuse. Juan chuckles weakly, and that worries him. “Hurry,” he pleads, knotting his fingers in the covers. He wants – no, he needs to see.  
  
Juan obliges, and the bandages begin to fall away faster. Finally, the last layer is removed, and Matt can feel the faint movements of air currents against his bare eyelids. As instructed, he opens his eyes slowly, lashes fluttering before finally raising. The world around him is blurry, but that`s to be expected without his glasses. He squints to bring it into focus. The first thing he sees is Juan`s worried face, his dark brown eyes peering back at Matt with concern.  
  
“Mateo? You all right?”  
  
Matthew ignores him for the moment, taking in the room around him as much as he can. He`d expected a hospital room of some kind, given the bandages. It appears to be more of a clinic, which he supposes is close enough, but there`s something… off about it. The shutters are down and none of the lights are on, which he attributes to Juan`s turning them off on account of his eyes. But there`s what appears to be an oil lamp of all things burning on a counter, the acrid scent of it mixing with a sweet smell like some kind of herbal incense.  
  
His eyes drift back to the bed, to his hands and the covers. The left one is, as he`d suspected, bandaged. But the covers are not standard hospital issue. To his surprise, they are well-tanned furs, soft and warm against his skin. And then, he sees Alfred.  
  
His brother is lying on the bed next to him, swaddled in the same furs. The same bandages that were around Matthew`s eyes lay about his own, and his hair has grown, falling in shaggy waves about his face, save for that arrogant cowlick which sticks up as defiantly as usual. But his face is pale and drawn, and although his chest is moving, he lies unnaturally (unnaturally for Alfred anyway) still and quiet.  
  
“…Alfred,” he says at last, and nothing more. He reaches out to his twin, his hand shaking. Juan says something, but Matthew doesn`t hear him because the memories are roaring back and he is lost.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
The compromise felt uncomfortably like a wedding to Canada, even as he`d signed the treaty papers. But America had beamed like a new bride, barely able to contain his excitement when he accepted the pen and put his name to paper with a flourish. It was all a formality, as their governments had already passed the relevant laws within their own capitals, but a joint statement would reassure the peoples of both nations.  
  
The build-up of the North American perimeter had already been under way, while the interior border control had been slowly easing for months. While the ink was still drying on the paper, the flow of people and goods between the United States and Canada was already higher than it had been in years.  
  
“I`m not you,” he`d whispered in quiet desperation against America`s throat that night, his fingers clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white as bone. A litany ran through his head, those things that set him apart from his twin, that made him Canada and not just another America. Commonwealth, hockey, parliament, permafrost, Québécois, 90% of the world`s maple syrup, Mounties, red and white, and beavers, and - - and –  
  
“I know,” America had breathed out. “I know, I know. You`re Canada. Oh, Canada…” And Canada would have been angry except there was no sarcasm in that sigh, only a desperation that equaled his own. “I love you, I love you…”  
  
America had opened to him, wanting and willing and hot, and Canada had surged against him.  
  
 _(Oh, Matthew remembers this part. He`d dreamed of this part, had tried to hold onto it when the nightmares had come threatening to tear it from him.)_  
  
There were bumps of course, but they`d both expected that. He`d forgotten how eager America was to please, to be loved and wanted. And Canada did love and want and he found that, despite all those bumps, he was pleased. It was like being young again, the two of them swaddled together against the world outside of them.  
  
But their shell had been cracked long ago, and in the modern age there was no longer a white porcelain shield to maintain their isolation. That had never been the point in any case. Although they cooperated in securing a North America border, both nations were intent on keeping up their other alliances and friendships. England came to tea regularly, and his updates about the rest of the commonwealth were far more welcome than his coal-black scones. France and America talked fashion until Canada`s head whirled with silks and cottons and names for colors he suspected they`d made up on the spot. America snuck out of bed on occasion to log in and shoot zombies with Japan and South Korea, and Canada had mumbled but never minded, because he liked having the bed to himself once in a while. China came over and dined with them both, and Canada had enjoyed it, even if he had to spend the entire next day searching for America`s stupid cat to prove to him that China had NOT eaten the damn thing.  
  
Then North Korea had snapped, and the world had gone to hell in the handbasket express.  
  
America used to complain about the domino effect of alliances that had led to the first World War. But this was different, or so he insisted. Korea was his _friend_ , and a hero didn`t abandon his friends.  
  
Even so, Canada had planned to stay out of it. But then North Korea`s missiles hit Japan, and America was fighting on two fronts and trying to save everyone all at once, and how could he let his brother bear that alone?  
  
The dominos fell. The UK to their side, Iran to North Korea`s. France and Germany here, Turkey, Syria, and Lebanon over there. Greece in flames, India and Pakistan at each other`s throats and Russia tearing itself apart from the inside, Spain doing the same, and everyone holding their breath to see where China would go.  
  
Then it didn`t matter, because the bombs fell.  
  
And, while everyone`s eyes were on Asia, they fell on America, and on Canada. North America burned.  
  
 _(He can`t remember that part clearly. Just pain and screaming as he and his brother clung to each other and burned. Can`t even remember who or where the bombs came from, only that they came and kept coming. They hadn`t surrendered. They weren`t given the chance, though Matthew knows Alfred would have never done it. He likes to think he would have done the same.)_  
  
They stopped eventually. The war was fought to a close, as Europe closed in on the Middle East and Asia pressed in on North Korea. China had enough, and disowned his once precious little brother, and all that was left was Korea, bruised and bloody, but closer to whole than he`d been in close to a century.  
  
And then, in the still-smoldering ashes of America and Canada`s cities, plague came. Radiation caused the virus to mutate and spread, faster and faster. People fled, those that could, until those same borders slammed down on them. It was for the good of the world, because where the infected went, the virus followed. Soon the only port in or out of North America was Mexico, and there was a wall between the southern US and him that worked as well for quarantine as it had for immigration, if not better.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
Matthew swallows what little moisture remains in his mouth, coming to and finding himself curled about his unconscious twin as if he could protect him now. It`s far too late for that however, and that knowledge lies bitter and heavy in the back of his throat.  
  
“How many?” he croaks. He turns, his eyes blood-shot and hard. “How long was I unconscious? How many did we lose?”  
  
Juan fiddles with the cup in his hands, reluctant to answer. When he speaks, his voice is low, rough with the tears Matthew won`t shed.  
  
“We can`t be certain but… Between – between everything, the best estimate is several hundred million… More than… more than half. Though, for what it`s worth –“ he hastens to add, “-millions did manage to get out before the quarantine dropped.”  
  
It isn`t worth much, Matthew thinks bitterly, but there`s no point in voicing what they both already know. He looks down at his bandaged hand. It doesn`t feel burnt. “How long?” he repeats.  
  
Juan closes his eyes. “Seventeen years. It`s been seventeen years. Those bandages… The plague causes sensitivity to light and violent seizures.”  
  
 _Seventeen years._ Matthew feels sick. Over a decade, and close to two. The virus had raged across his and Alfred`s lands for that long. Nations were usually immune to human diseases, but when enough of their population was infected, they too would succumb.  
  
He gazes down at his brother, noting the sweat beading on his forehead, and the clenched line of his jaw even in sleep. Although enough of his own people must have recovered for him to do so as well, it seemed Alfred`s had yet to do the same. It was no real surprise, considering how much larger and more densely populated the United States were, but Matthew aches at the thought nonetheless.  
  
He wonders why they`re not dead, or vanished like Ancient Rome (like their mother), but he doesn`t dare to voice that thought aloud. Not with Alfred lying unresponsive under him. Unconsciously, Matthew reaches out to trace his fingers over his twin`s lips. He misses Alfred`s smile already.  
  
Matthew pulls himself from his thoughts with some difficulty, finally turning back to Juan. His older brother looks tired, ashen under his normally rich skin tone, but otherwise well. Matthew sighs silently, looking about to either side of him.  
  
“Where`s Kumajirou?” he asks belatedly. Juan opens his mouth to answer, but a new voice from the doorway chimes in before he can.  
  
“He`s right here.”  
  
Matthew and Juan both turn to the sound, and Matthew`s eyes take in the new arrival. It`s a man, no longer young but still in the full prime of his life, with eyes that shine like obsidian and hair equally as glossy and black. He wears it short, cut a little ragged as if he`d meant to style it but hadn`t had the time. His skin is russet, almost the color of rich planting soil, and the beadwork of his bracelet marks him as a member of the Haudenosaunee. Mohawk, Matthew would bet, and feel secure about his wager. As the man had said, Kumajirou is indeed with him, nosing him from behind.  
  
The stranger laughs, embarrassed by the bear`s obvious affection, and reaches around to tug him in front, giving the Kermode`s neck fur a rough pet as he does so.  
  
“Kumataro!” Matthew exclaims joyfully, holding his arms open to the bear. Kumajirou tilts his head to the side and hesitates a moment, but then lumbers straight into them. He buries his nose in Matthew`s side, a mumbled `who?` escaping him. Matthew laughs despite everything, as relief at his old friend`s safety lifts a bit of the weight off of his heart.  
  
The newcomer watches them in amused silence. He and Juan exchange a look, but neither says anything as they allow Matthew his reunion. Finally, the northern nation sobers, and looks back at them.  
  
“Who are you?” Matthew asks the man at last, his eyes wide and curious.  
  
The man shrugs, and looks at first at Matthew, then at the still-unconscious Alfred. Matthew`s first instinct is to shift in front of his brother protectively, but Kumajirou seems to trust this man. And somehow, deep inside, he wants to do the same.  
  
The man finally takes the other chair in the room, sitting in it with his legs spread. His elbows rest on his knees, and Matthew can see the calluses on his hands, the way the man rubs them nervously. But when his eyes lift to meet Matthew`s, they are calm and steady. They seem to look right through him, down to his insides, even the dark squirmy bits he keeps shoved down there. Matthew swallows hard, unnerved by it.  
  
“Well,” the man begins at last in a slow drawl. For some reason, Matthew can`t remember how to breath in the microseconds between that word and the next. “I suppose I`m your new boss.”  
  
  
  
 **Notes:**  
[North American perimeter](http://www.onlinejournal.com/artman/publish/article_5451.shtml) – This is actually something that`s been discussed as early as 2005 between the US and Canada (with the possible extension to Mexico). Essentially, the two would establish a tighter, united perimeter around both their nations, thus allowing to border between the two to be even more open that it already is.  
  
[Haudenosaunee means the Iroquois.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iroquois) It is their own name for themselves, meaning “People of the Longhouse”. There were originally five tribes: Onondaga, Oneida, Mohawk, Seneca, and Cayuga. The Tuscarora joined later on, under the sponsorship of the Oneida. Their traditional territory extends over New York state and into parts of Canada.  
  
For the purposes of this fic, Kumajirou is a [Kermode bear](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kermode_bear) – a type of black bear with white fur that is not an albino, that ranges through Canada. It`s also referred to as a spirit bear, and is attributed by First Nations to have supernatural abilities and significance.


	3. Prophecy

**Prophecy**  
  
The man`s eyes crinkle. “You don`t look like much of a snake.”  
  
“Orenda,” Kumajirou says, and Matthew`s eyes widen in shock. That`s not a name handed out lightly… or at all, for that matter. It would be too much like naming your kid `the Holy Ghost` or the like. For the man to be given such a name – and the reference to snakes too…  
  
Matthew`s sudden gasp is loud in the quiet clinic room as old memories and stories come roaring back to him. “You`re – you`re the boy from the prophecy. Deganawidah`s old prophecy. The boy-seer who`ll defeat the snakes and unite the people.”  
  
Despite his fear, he can`t keep the note of awe out of his voice. After all, he`s never met a prophecy come to life before. Al would have a field day over this, he thinks.  
  
That thought brings with it a wave of fresh worry over his brother. Alfred`s face is pale, tension still lingering in its lines. Matthew hovers over him protectively. The old prophecy tells of a boy who will reclaim North America for the native peoples, driving out those who had taken over their lands. He licks his lips, dredging up his question. “Does, does that mean you`re here to kill us?” he asks in a voice so soft it can barely be heard.  
  
The man – Orenda – shakes his head. “No, no.” He holds his hands up for inspection. “I`m not a boy anymore… And to be honest, I`d prefer it if you`d just call me James, or even Jim. That`s what my mother named me.” He frowned. “Prophecy is a funny thing. Something bad enough happens, people want a reason for it, and when they can`t find one good enough, they start pointing to that sort of thing. They`ll find things to fit, or make them. I`m not going to say I didn`t do anything, but a lot of it was just being in the right place at the right time.”  
  
He looks over Matthew for a long moment before deciding to continue. Kumajirou mutters `Orenda` stubbornly, and he sighs. “When the Democratic People`s Republic of Korea started attacking, and all those others joined it, the Haudenosaunee started to remember old Deganawidah`s words about the red serpent coming to fight the white one. And when the bombs fell, they remembered what he`d said about the high, old places, and started heading for the hills – literally. When the plague started to spread, they began coming here, to Iroquois territory, because that was the origin of the prophecy. The Catskills, the Adirondacks… The Indian people came here, and _they didn`t get sick_ … Or at least, few enough of them did. As it turns out, there`s a sort of immunity to the plague virus among us. The more Indian blood you got, the more resistant you are.”  
  
The flow of speech pauses for a moment as he sucks in a much-needed breath. “My mother was one of the scientists who first managed to isolate the gene. Together, her team – not just Indians either, but all sorts of people who`d come when they heard there was a safe place - managed to concoct a vaccine.”  
  
Jim looks over at Alfred, his eyes softening. He reaches out a hand to brush aside a sweat-soaked strand of amber hair and Matthew, to his own surprise, lets him. Juan, who has been uncharacteristically silent up to this point, butts in.  
  
“The numbers of infected have been dropping since then. We assumed you would regain consciousness first, because your people have been recovering faster. But Al… Well, the numbers in the US are still pretty high.”  
  
“We`re working on them though,” Jim declares, a determined note ringing out in his voice. “They are dropping. We just need a little more time. We`ve got some treatments for it now, ones that actually help. Legends aside, you two aren`t snakes. I`m not going to let your brother suffer.”  
  
Matthew is silent for a time, his chin buried in Kumajirou`s fur. “So what happens now?”  
  
Jim and Juan share a long look – long enough that Matthew grows fidgety. His patience seems shorter than usual. He wonders if that`s because of Alfred`s state, if he`s starting to take on some of Al`s traits because his brother can`t right now. “Tell me,” he demands.  
  
Juan sighs. “I need to go back to my house.” He holds up a hand, forestalling Matthew`s protests. Juan wears his feelings openly, and Matthew can see the anguish that flickers across his face, the concern for his little brothers in his dark brown eyes.  
  
“I know you`re worried about Alfredo still. I am too, but I`ve got to take care of my own people too. You know that. If I could be in two places at one I would, but I can`t. And do you really think Alfred would want me to?” He waits for Matthew`s head to droop in acceptance, and then continues. “Now that you`re awake, you can keep an eye on him. Jim will look out for you both, but he`s got a lot of work to do to. The federal governments are practically nonexistent, and even local ones are in shambles. The tribal councils are some of the few authorities that managed to stay intact, thanks to that immunity, and a lot of people are looking to them for guidance. Since they`re all looking at `Orenda` here, well, he`s got his hands full. You`re going to need a place to heal, and rest. We`re near Haudenosaunee lands now, and well –“  
  
Matthew`s head shoots up sharply. “What? You can`t mean - ! Juan! You know Al and I aren`t exactly on the best terms with…” He flushes, and doesn`t finish. If forced to, he`d admit to being ashamed of his treatment of their aunts and uncles in the past, but a part of him can`t help but be defensive about it despite that.  
  
“Mateo.” Juan`s voice is sharp, brooking no argument. He`s heard that tone from his older brother before, but it`s been a long time since Juan had the power to back it up. Matt can`t help but wonder if he does now. “They`re your family.”  
  
`Suck it up and deal` Matthew translates that to mean. He frowns stubbornly, tugging Kumajirou closer. Juan recognizes the look, and his own expression darkens in response. The two of them have never gotten along well, especially where Alfred is concerned. Juan thinks Matthew is a possessive, passive-aggressive little brat who`s grown too big for his britches, and Matthew thinks Juan is a jealous, opportunist hoser who needs to stay on his own side of the border and stop trying to get at Alfred`s vital regions. He loves his brother, but that doesn`t mean he always likes him all that much. But before they can air any of this once more, Jim interrupts them.  
  
“No fighting in the sickroom you two,” he says, and they both have the grace to look ashamed. “Seneca will be here in a few days – she`s the closest. You should try and eat something if you can, and get some rest. We`ll, uh – “ He looks over Matthew, and the blond blushes to realize he`s wearing nothing more than a thin hospital gown that gapes open in the back. “- see about finding you some decent clothes to wear.”  
  
  
 **Notes:**  
  
The Two Serpents prophecy is an actual prophecy of the Mohawk tribe by the prophet Deganawidah, the full text at which can be found online. There is a similar referring to the nations of Canada and America as silver and gold snakes as well.  
<http://prophecy2012prediction.blogspot.com/2009/02/two-serpent-prophecy.html> <http://www.dreamscape.com/morgana/rhea.htm>


	4. Ties

Ties

All their squabbles of the past seem to evaporate when the time finally comes for Juan to say goodbye. Matthew is wearing a pair of jeans that hang loose around his waist thanks to the weight he lost while sick, and a sweatshirt that smells of mothballs and musty closet. Conscious of that, he sticks out his hand for a parting handshake, but his older brother brushes it aside without a moment`s hesitation and pulls him into a tight hug.

“Take care Mateo,” he whispers into Matthew`s ear, his voice taunt as strung bowstring. “Of yourself and our little conejo too.”

Matthew nods, not trusting himself to answer. They remain like that for a few more moments before finally pulling away, Juan keeping an arm out for Matthew to steady himself on; he hasn`t been out of his sickbed all that long, and it shows.

He stiffens at the knock on the door.

“Steel yourself,” Juan mutters, and he does so. All the same, his jaw tightens at the sight of the woman who follows Jim in – her long black hair is braided tightly, lightly streaked with grey, the edges of her dark eyes crinkled with years that have done nothing to soften her stern expression. Not even living with her gentler sister for the past couple of hundred years could manage that. Seneca once bore the title of the guardian of the western door, and no one seeing her would question whether she felt she bore that responsibility still. Warrior`s eyes, set into a warrior`s face, and with as little tolerance for nonsense as one. Still, Matthew can`t help but notice the beauty of the beadwork she wears – both her own intricate work and Cayuga`s simpler but equally elegant design.

“Hello Auntie,” he greets cautiously. She looks him over, seeming vaguely displeased, though he can`t tell at what. Kumajirou wanders over to sniff at her hand and is rewarded with a quick ruffle of his fur. Matthew represses a scowl at that.

“Come child,” she says at last. Matthew begins to bristle at being referred to as such, but Juan`s hand on his shoulder keeps him silent. “If you`ve said your goodbyes, then we should be off. We have to load your brother, and after that we’ve got long drive ahead of us.”

He nods stiffly. He`s ready. It`s not as if he has any luggage to bring with him after all, save for Alfred and Kumajirou, but they`re not exactly baggage. He is herded into the van as the others load Alfred, insisting (correctly), that Matthew is still not well enough himself to assist. He wraps his arms around Kumajirou and sulks until Jim comes around from the back.

“Well, he`s all tucked in back there, safe and sound as we can make him,” Jim says, dusting off his hands. Matthew sits up a little, straightening his shoulders when he feels Jim`s eyes settle on him. “Hey,” he continues gently, and Matthew feels a little worse for his sulking, “-I`m going to keep working hard for you two.” Seneca climbs in behind the driver`s seat, and the man shares a look with her. Something seems to pass between them, but Matthew would be damned if he knew what it was. “For all of us.”

Matthew chews on his lip, but nods. “Thank you,” he says, and he means it. Then Seneca starts up the car and he has to quickly wave goodbye to Juan and Jim before they are left behind them. Once his older brother and boss fade from sight, he sighs and settles back against the seat. Seneca says nothing, and in fact the drives passes by in almost complete silence, broken only by an old country cassette tape she pushes into the player. It plays through twice before they finally arrived at their destination – a dirt road somewhere in the middle of Onondaga territory, leading to a cabin set a bit off from the rest of the village.

Onondaga is waiting for them when they pull up the drive. He wears his own long hair loose, clad in an old flannel shirt, buttoned up against the cooling night. None of the others are present: not Cayuga, with her skilled hands, nor Oneida, with his quiet solidarity, not Mohawk, herself as much the warrior as Seneca, nor Tuscarora, with his boisterous laugh. Matthew wonders if they will come at all.

He exchanges a greeting of some sort with his uncle, but he can`t recall the exact words of the exchange a minute later. He is tired from the drive, and his long illness, and distracted by seeing what he assumes is to be his new home for the time being. It is clearly far from new, but well-kept up despite that, clean and without the usual musty smell that accompanies such places. He sets Kumajirou down and takes the chance to peer inside while his aunt and uncle see to Alfred. There is a small kitchen with an old-fashioned woodstove and a table, one leg shorter than the other three and therefore propped up by a deck of playing cards. There is a small but serviceable bathroom and a loft that he assumes usually serves as the sleeping area. However, it appears someone knew they weren`t about to clamber up that ladder anytime soon, as two fold-out beds had been set up in the living room area and any furniture that might have been there removed, save for a coffee table and one sitting chair.

The windows are large and open, letting in the night air, which Matthew is thankful for as he sinks into the chair and breaths it in deeply. Alfred is laid on the bed nearest to him. Disregarding that his aunt and uncle are still present, Matthew slumps forward over his brother, rising and falling along with the movements of Alfred`s chest and listening to the heart beating in tandem with his own.

“You`ll be staying here for a while,” Onondaga explains, his voice not unkind. “Not isolated, but just given some space for the time being. We will bring you the things you need of course. It was decided this would be best.”

Best for whom, Matthew wonders, but he doesn`t ask that. “How long?” he asks instead, and turns to see his uncle`s answering shrug.

“Until you`re ready.”

Matthew grunts, and finally asks the question that`s been hovering at the back of his mind all this time, despite the part of him that dreads the answer.

“How are we still here?”

Seneca gives him a sharp stare that seems to go on forever to Matthew and answers before her brother.

“I`d guess you still have enough people believing in you not to start out after the ancestors just yet,” she says at last, following it up with a shrug. “Broke don`t mean dead, necessarily.” She begins walking towards the door, and after a moment, her brother follows her. “But that`s up to you, ain`t it?”

Notes:

“Of yourself and our little conejo too.” – Conejo means rabbit in Spanish.

The Iroquois were matriarchal: families traced down the mother`s line and the elder women appointed and removed chiefs from power. Thus, I decided to make Seneca and Cayuga (and later Mohawk) women. The Seneca and the Mohawk were located on the outside geographically-speaking, and charged with the protection of the League`s outer territories. The Onondaga were central, and thus were keepers of the League's (both literal and figurative) central flame. The Cayuga do not have their own reservation today and thus share with the Seneca today.

Auntie is a term of respect for an older woman among many tribes and not at all meant in the diminutive sense.


	5. Awakenings

**Awakenings**  
  
Matthew spends his days hovering over Alfred`s bedside. Cayuga comes after all, and she and Seneca bring him food at first, although after a while they begin to bring over the ingredients rather than a prepared meal. They will drag him away from his brother`s side to the cabin`s small kitchen, and set him to work chopping and cleaning. There is little conversation, and Matthew is grateful for it, preferring to allow his world to shrink down to the meats and vegetables in front of him.  
  
There are no computers, and the phone lines are all dead, leaving the phones no more than lumps of useless, dead plastic. Nor does their cabin have a TV, but there is a radio, though the broadcasts are only local in nature and even those are filled with static and occasionally drop out. Still, Matthew listens to them, clinging to the tentative connection to the outside world. There is little to no news of anything outside of North America, but occasionally there are snippets about the doings of local governments, updates on the weather and the plague, and of course the playback of an old song or two.  
  
Most of his time is devoted to Alfred. Attempting to feed him, bathing him with a sponge, changing the bed sheets... There are a few signs of recovery as he ceases to have fits and the light doesn`t seem to bother him as much. Matthew removes the bandages about his eyes with relief, but almost misses the flailing about in contrast to the deathly stillness that replaces it. Onondaga brings him books sometimes, and he reads those aloud to Al. Sometimes he imagines he sees a response to the sound of his voice – a twitching of the eyelids or of the fingers, and he hopes, but nothing comes of it.  
  
And sometimes, he slips back into fever himself. Those times, he wakes to find himself tucked into bed, a wet cloth on his forehead and Kumajirou lying over his legs. That makes it difficult to keep track of the days, but he knows when winter is nearing its end by the snow melt, and as the days gradually grow longer, these spells are fewer and farther between.  
  
Then, just as snow melt is trickling down the mountainside and turning the dirt paths around the cabin to mud, Alfred opens his eyes.  
  
“Hey,” Matthew greets him softly, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat as he watches Alfred slowly blink the fog away. A thousand more words war for supremacy, but none win the battle. But Alfred turns his head at the greeting, focusing on his brother, and that breath slips out at last, a fierce joy welling up inside of Matthew.  
  
“Hay is for horses,” Alfred croaks, “-grass is cheaper.” He winces, and raises a hand to rub at his sore throat. Matthew remembers the feeling but it still takes him a minute before he can bring himself to move from his brother`s side to fetch him some water.  
  
After Alfred finishes the water, his eyes grow heavy and he slumps back against the bed. Matthew kicks his shoes off and climbs up into the bed next to his brother, wrapping himself around him. He listens to Alfred`s breathing evening out, and closes his own eyes until sleep claims him as well.  
  
  
Matthew awakens to find Alfred`s face mere inches from his own. Alfred studies him curiously, his expression weary but gloriously awake. Matthew could kiss him just for that, but he settles for rolling onto his back and rubbing at his eyes.  
  
“How much do you remember?” he asks at last. He waits a long time for a reply, but only silence is forth-coming. He looks over to see Alfred staring at the patterns in the bedcovers, picking at a loose thread, and the broken look on his face is answer enough. He sits up and tugs his brother into his arms. Holding him close, Matthew whispers the story of all that`s happened since he first awakened softly into wheat gold hair.  
  
“...and they brought us all the way out here. To heal, or so they said. Juan writes on occasion but... The computers and phone lines don`t work, so it`s all snail mail and pony express. Jim visits when he can, but that`s not often. Mainly it`s just the others – Aunt Seneca and Aunt Mohawk mostly. Some of the neighbouring kids run by sometimes. They... They don`t seem to miss things the way the adults do.”  
  
“They never do.” Alfred sighs. “What about other nations?” he asks, his voice muffled by Matthew`s chest.  
  
Matthew shakes his head in answer. A faint tremble runs through Alfred, but then he struggles to sit up straight, pushing away at Matthew`s arms. Reluctantly, Matthew lets him slip free, hating every new inch of space between them.  
  
“Orenda – Jim.” Alfred licks his lips, looking confused. “Whose boss is he exactly?”  
  
“Both of ours, I think.” Matthew tilts his head to the side, unconscious of how Kumajirou-like the action is. He too, had assumed Jim to be his boss at first, but what he managed to hear and learn since indicated otherwise. In the absence of a cohesive federal government for either of their nations, an odd sort of patchwork had emerged to keep the surviving communities tied together. Those communities elected local leaders much as they always had, but those leaders often looked to the more stable tribal leaderships for guidance. That meant a lot of people`s eyes wandered in Jim`s direction. Thanks to his mother`s and his own valiant actions to battle the plague, even those who distrusted the traditional tribal governments were inclined to support him. Had their people not been thrown into such chaos, Matthew believed the man would have been a natural to run for high-level political office.  
  
As it was, Orenda, as they called him, had been elected in the oldest of traditions; he had saved people, and they had remembered. They looked to him with loyalty and respect, and had placed their trust in his leadership. So far, it seemed, he had lead them well. As much as his current isolation ruffled Matthew, he too, had to respect that.  
  
“Can we DO that?”  
  
...Not that Alfred would know any of that of course. Matthew shrugs and manages a smile at his brother. “We did.”  
  
Alfred scrunches his face up, that same look he always got when he wasn`t sure how he felt about something and wasn`t content to just let it be. “What does that mean though?”  
  
“I don`t know,” Matthew snaps. He immediately regrets, and his voice falls right back to its usual tones. “I don`t know much of anything anymore.” Alfred frowns, and shifts to the edge of the bed, trying to stand, and Matt makes a grab for him. “Al! Stop it! You`re still really sick. You – you need to rest and get better.”  
  
Alfred slumps back into Matt`s grip, his body thudding heavily on the mattress, though it`s clearly out of weakness rather than any urge to obey his brother. “I don`t like it,” he mutters. “People are hurting. I need to get out there and help them.”  
  
“Al... Right now, you just need to get better. Jim`s doing his best for you – for both of us. Trust him, please? And try and get a little more sleep for me?” Matthew pleads.  
  
Alfred turns to him, his eyes haunted. “I`m sick of sleeping. I – I keep seeing them. Burning. Dying. I kept having the same dreams. Mattie – “  
  
Matthew stops him, covering Alfred`s mouth with his fingers. “I know,” he says miserably, letting his fingers drop. “I have the same ones.”  
  
He looks about the cabin for something to distract both of them, his eyes alighting on the latest book Onondaga had brought. “I`ll read to you, okay?”  
  
Alfred nods, and lies back on the bed while Matthew retrieves the book. He slides in next to his twin, opening to the first page. As he reads, Alfred curls up next to him, like he had when they were children and Arthur had told him some scary story. He reads for a long time, until his growling stomach forces him to get out of bed and put some food into it. He brings soup for Al, and helps his brother get down most of it. Then he returns to the bed and Alfred cuddles up next to him, and he begins to read once more.


	6. Growth

**Growth**  
  
“You`ve GOT to be kidding me,” Al says, and Matthew finds himself wincing before his brother has even finished speaking. He looks cautiously over at their aunt, who has no expression on her stony face, and for a moment dares to hope that they`ve avoided the storm. But no, Al continues to forge on, and now Matt can see the dark clouds gathering in her eyes, the tension in her jawline.  
  
“This is… well, ridiculous! I mean, obviously, we can do it, sure. But it`s ridiculously inefficient. You guys have all sorts of tools; you even have tractors for chrissake! Expecting us to plant and take care of a field this wide by hand makes no sense!”  
  
Matthew winces and wishes Al would stop using `we` and `us`. His twin had only been awake for a couple of weeks and out of his sickbed for half that time, and yet he was already back to his old habit of dragging Matthew into trouble with him.  
  
It`s not that he doesn`t agree with Alfred, because he does. The expanse of field in front of them is large enough that planting it with the basic tools they`ve been given will take ages, working from dawn to dusk. While they might have had to do that sort of thing years back, it didn`t make much sense to have to suffer through something so primitive now. A lot had been lost to the war and the plague, but the tribe had several tractors and, should they wish to withhold using them for fuel reasons, plenty of livestock capable of pulling a hoe. But their aunt has a sharp temper, and he has no desire to be on the cutting edge of it.  
  
“We’ve given you what you require.” Their aunt points with her chin at the pile of hand tools on the ground. “You treat them with care and they’ll last you through the season. You eat what you can grow, or else you don’t eat.”  
  
Seneca doesn`t bother to ask if they understand her. She has never been one given to baby-talk or indulgences, unlike their uncle who was susceptible to soft looks and sweet talk. Even Alfred looks like he understands, though he sets his jaw stubbornly. Matthew wonders if either of them realizes how alike it makes them look.  
  
“I thought we were supposed to be resting and recovering,” Al mutters, although he`s already pushing his sleeves up to get to work.  
  
“If you`ve recovered enough to talk back, you`re well enough to work,” their aunt snaps, and swats the back of his head. Alfred yelps, and jumps to scoop up one of the baskets of seeds. “Matthew!”  
  
Matthew jumps at his name, his eyes widening as his aunt approaches him now. “Yes?” he says meekly, but she merely narrows her eyes and gestures for him to hold out his hand. Wincing, he does so, and she slaps the handle of a trowel into it.  
  
“Stop dawdling and get to work,” Seneca orders. He scurries to obey, shooting a dirty look at Alfred`s quiet snickers at his expense. Their aunt watches them for a few minutes with her arms crossed over her chest, before nodding. “I`ll come by with some lunch at noon. If you two have made sufficient progress by then, I may even give it to you.”  
  
As the sun starts to slip beneath the edge of the mountain, there is not a spot on Matthew that is not dirty or sweaty. Alfred is in much the same state, his mouth a grim slash across his face. He is obviously tired, but pushes himself to keep working with a dogged determination. Their aunt had brought lunch as she had said, and then stood and watched them work for another hour until she had been satisfied enough with their progress to give it to them. And that had been hours ago, Matthew`s stomach reminds him with a loud gurgle.  
  
He looks over at Alfred, who had only picked at his own lunch and who by all rights and precedent should be starving. But his brother is glaring down at the dirt, stabbing into it like the ground itself is an enemy somehow. Matthew wants to yell at him, to grab his arms and tell him he can stop now. But he doesn`t, because he knows Alfred will only stare back at him with that same haunted expression he`s worn since waking. It`s like he`s lost in the waking world, left without anything physical he could strike back at, and the ground is now serving as a substitute. As much as he might have complained about it before, Matthew misses the old exuberance. By now, Alfred should have tossed the tools aside with a brilliant smile, challenging him to race back, and the last one there had to do the dishes.  
  
“Children!” A voice calls to them, and Matthew starts, expecting to see Seneca. However, it is neither Cayuga nor Seneca standing there, but their other aunt standing there, her unbound hair fluttering about her strong face in the evening wind. Mohawk crosses her arms, waiting for their attention. Matthew feels his mouth turn down into a scowl. He doesn`t like being called a child and judging by the way Alfred straightens and frowns, neither does he.  
  
“It`s dinnertime,” she says, ignoring their faces. “We will eat together tonight.”  
  
Both twins jump at that. They look at each other, eyes reflecting their mutual surprise. They`ve eaten alone in their cabin this whole time, and there had been no indication there would be a change to that.  
  
“W-why?” Matthew manages to ask at last, stuttering over the question.  
  
Mohawk shoves her hair out of her face, dropping her arms to brush at her long skirts. She sniffs, studying their dirty hands and the work done with them. “Eat alone then, if that`s what you prefer. Onondaga will be telling stories tonight, but we will not force you to hear them if you choose not to.”  
  
“We`ll come,” Alfred butts in quickly, and Matthew starts in surprise.  
  
“You`re sure Al?” he whispers to his brother. Mohawk is already turning, heading to the village. Alfred puts his tools away, and Matthew hurries to follow. “She said we don`t have to. You don`t have to. If you`re tired I mean. I don`t mind.”  
  
Alfred smiles wearily at him. “It`s okay Mattie,” he says, a faint echo of his old smile on his lips. He shrugs. “I just want to hear his stories.”  
  
Dinner that night is an awkward affair. Neither of them speaks much. It`s the norm for Matthew of course, but even Alfred is silent. Neither has much to say, and most of the conversation is stilted, or else flows over them like flood water over bedrock. The stories are better though. The village has plenty of children, from both the tribes and of people who`d sought refuge there during the plague and stayed, having found a home. They swarm about Onondaga, and the twins find themselves happily used as furniture and listening booths. Neither of them mind much, and Matthew swears he sees Alfred`s mouth creep up into a smile once or twice when the kids exclaim upon something in the stories to him. The quiet returns as they head back to the cabin, but it feels different – less tense, and warmer.  
  
The planting season enforces its rhythm on them. It takes less time than Matthew would have expected for them to slip back into the habit of rising with the dawn. They need no instructions from their aunts to plant the seeds they`ve been given; this they still remember, the corn above the squash, the beans climbing its stalks. Three Sisters, each giving and receiving in turn. That much they recall, and both of them have spent plenty of time working on farms. They know their soil and their crops, and there`s a tangible feeling of achievement when the first bits of green start to poke through the soil.  
  
And though they continue to eat alone during the day, at night there is dinner at the village, and after each dinner, there are the stories.  
  
Onondaga sits in front of the fire, children clustered around him, their eyes shining as he speaks with sweeping gestures, his voice rising and falling with the plot. Matthew enjoys watching their reactions as much as he does listening to the story itself. Alfred sits beside him, as spell-bound as the children. Matt can`t help but smile at that. It`s nice to see Al like this, more like himself than he`s been since he awoke.  
  
Matthew closes his eyes and breathes in, his nostrils filling with the scent of the fire and fading remnants of their evening meal. He can smell Alfred as well, freshly scrubbed skin and the cotton of his shirt. And he can hear him – little gasps of excitement and shock when the story takes a sudden turn, the occasional spurt of laughter now and then, and even a shudder at a scary part that makes Matthew`s smile grow when he pulls close. The stories seem to be bringing his brother back to himself, and back to Matthew as well. For that, more than anything he thinks, he is grateful to their uncle.  
  
Those results seem to linger more and more each day. Matthew feels himself becoming anchored by the light returning to Alfred`s eyes. His shoulders feel lighter, even when bending down to tend their crops.  
  
He`s feeling like that one day as he tugs weeds out from the edges of the field. Kumajirou keeps tugging on his sleeve and he swats at him lightly before giving in and pulling some dried fish out of his pocket for the bear. He smiles and shakes his head, watching the bear amble away with his prize, then returns to his weeding. One weed is particularly stubborn, its roots clinging deep. Matthew grits his teeth and secures his hands about it to rip it free, when a clod of dirt hits him hard in the back of his head.  
  
He falls onto his face in the soil, hands scrabbling for a grip. Spitting out dirt and grass, he cranks his head around with a scowl to see Alfred laughing at him. His brother holds his stomach, he`s laughing so hard, tell-tale smudges of dirt left behind on his shirt. Matthew growls, his fingers closing about their own handful of dirt.  
  
“If that`s the way you want to be,” he grinds out, flinging the handful at his brother. Alfred dodges easily, still laughing. Matthew follows the first handful with another, and this time it lands right in the middle of his brother`s laughing face. Matt gets a chuckle of his own in while Alfred flounders and spits out dirt.  
  
“How do you like the taste of your own medicine?” Matthew crows smugly. Alfred wipes at his mouth. The edges of his lips quirk up in a grin, and Matthew pales a little. He knows that look, and quickly reaches for more dirt, but Alfred is faster and now Matt has a large blotch of mud on his shirt.  
  
The fight is on in earnest, brothers trading fistful after fistful of loose soil. Finally, Matthew gives up on the dirt-flinging, and outright tackles his brother. By the time he finally manages to wrestle a laughing Alfred to the ground, they are both covered in dirt. He shudders at the feeling of sweat trickling through the grime on his face, scowling and shooting a look down at Alfred.  
  
The lecture dies in his mouth at the sight of his brother. Alfred is smiling, relaxed against the ground as he regains his breath. Matthew becomes horribly conscious of the heat of his brother`s body under his own, that smear of dirt just below Alfred`s ear. He suddenly realizes how long it`s been since he`s seen that sparkle in Alfred`s eyes, and the hunger that roars into him is that of a bear coming out of hibernation. He is starving for Alfred`s taste, and so he doesn`t bother with any of the usual niceties before mashing their lips together.  
  
Alfred responds in turn, opening to Matthew, grabbing at his arms and pulling him closer. They are a mess, and they smell, and neither one cares as they rut against the earth. They don`t even bother to remove their clothes, hands shoving in wherever the fabric allows, bodies crashing together again and again.  
  
Matthew`s nostrils flare as he rubs hard against his brother`s leg, the scent of dirt and sex strong. His blood sings in his ears and he is conscious of little more than the immediate sensations, but those are heightened almost unbearably. The breeze against his over-heated skin, the slight give of the softened ground, Alfred`s nails scratching against his back and his pants against his ear… and oh, the heat of him, like coming in to the fireplace after walking through a blizzard.  
  
Like a sun-warmed rock in a field of tall grasses.  
  
  
  
 **Notes:**  
  
The Three Sisters were grown by many tribes, including the Iroquois. They consisted of corn, beans, and squash. (<http://www.reneesgarden.com/articles/3sisters.html>)


	7. Backtrack

**Backtrack**  
  
Alfred is naked, taking advantage of the recent heavy rains to bathe in the barrel out back of their cabin. He`s having some trouble, thanks to the splash-happy bear who keeps trying to clamber in and join him. Matthew watches from the window, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips when Alfred reaches for the soap and is almost knocked out by Kumajirou. The slippery bar hits the dirt, forcing Alfred to clamber out after it with a loud curse.  
  
The fond amusement begins to warm into something different as he watches. Alfred`s arms and shoulders are well-tanned from their labor in the fields, but the tan-line about his waist is obvious. Matthew swallows hard when he is presented with the sight of two round, moon-pale cheeks when Alfred spins around to lecture the bear. Any pudge from all that fast food has long since been sweated away and Alfred is all long, lean muscle and mismatched skin tones, not a stitch of fabric on him, and Matthew doesn`t think he`s ever seen anything so delicious.  
  
Then he turns and has the audacity to crack _that_ grin at his brother, and Matthew is out the door, shoving Alfred back against the barrel so hard he hears it creak. Kumajiriou growls in complaint but Alfred is laughing, throwing his arms around Matthew and returning open-mouthed, hungry kisses with those of his own.  
  
Matthew is about to shed his clothes when a loud cough from the cabin interrupts them. He freezes, teeth closed gently about Alfred`s neck, and feels his brother go tense in his arms.  
  
“Aun – Auntie!” he hears Alfred choke out, and just like that he wilts. He lets go of Alfred, feeling his face burn a red that must rival the blush on his brother`s as he scrambles for his towel.  
  
Mohawk waits on the porch for them, one eyebrow raised. “Really?” she says, unperturbed. “I changed your clothes when you soiled them as babes. I have seen it all before.”  
  
“Auntie!” Alfred yelps again, this time in protest. Matthew too, groans, not needing to hear that. He doesn`t remember much before France found him lost in the woods all those years ago, and he knows Alfred doesn`t either, and hearing things like that causes him to fervently believe that`s for the best. He supposes he should just be grateful their kind aren`t quite like humans. Their family knows has always known what sort of relationship he and Al have, sometimes better even than themselves. It had been taken for granted, expected even, geography and culture and politics all being what they were.  
  
Were they human, he expects there would be a huge outcry against it. But he and Alfred are not human. They belong together. He knows that. He`s rebelled against it in the past, because he doesn`t like thinking that he has no choice in the matter. But now, they have so little left of themselves, other than each other, and Matthew can`t seem to stop clinging.  
  
“Come on,” their aunt says with a click of her tongue. “Hurry up and make yourselves presentable. We have a guest today.”  
  
“Who?” Alfred asks at the same time Matthew blurts out “Is it Jim?”  
  
Mohawk`s mouth quirks up, and she turns her back to them. “The sooner you are dressed and ready, the sooner you will find out,” she responds, walking away.  
  
Matthew and Alfred are both out of breath by the time they arrive at the village. Mohawk gives them a look as if to ask what took them so long, then herds them into the long wooden building that serves as the town`s meeting hall. It is mostly empty, none of the usual elders milling around and talking. Instead, their aunts and uncles are seated around a table, engaged in whispered conversations.  
  
Matthew stumbles to an unsteady halt, and beside him, Alfred does the same. He feels his brother`s fingers brush against his, and knows he feels the same unease. Their relations all wear serious expressions, even the usually boisterous Tuscarora, who is looking down into the mug he holds with an uncharacteristically subdued expression.  
  
As one, the twins` heads swivel when the door behind him opens. “Jim,” Matthew whispers, and he spares a quick glance at Alfred, who has yet to meet their boss. His brother`s eyes are wide like a child`s behind the lenses of his glasses.  
  
“Orenda,” Onondaga greets, standing. Their uncle offers him a seat, which he sinks into gratefully. Instinctively, Matthew takes a step towards the man, but Alfred butts in before he can say anything.  
  
“You`re my new boss then? Our new boss?” Alfred demands to know.  
  
Jim nods, grinning. “That`s right –“ he begins to answer, but Alfred doesn`t let him finish.  
  
“Mine and Mattie`s? Both of ours. What does that mean?”  
  
Jim`s smile doesn`t fade but it takes on a wistful tinge. “Well, that depends on you.”  
  
“Huh?” Although his brother is being much louder about it, Matthew is just as surprised as Alfred. Seneca had said much the same thing to him before, and he wasn`t much closer to understanding the meaning of it now.  
  
Jim gestures at the table and the remaining empty chairs, and Oneida shifts closer to the others, leaving a space open for the two of them. Hesitantly, Matthew sits down. Alfred remains standing for another moment, exchanging a long look with his brother before he too sits. Under the table, Matthew reaches out his hand. When Alfred grabs it and squeezes, he nods, understanding.  
  
“You look much better than last time I saw you,” Jim says once they`re seated. His eyes flicker from one brother to the other. “Both of you. It`s good to see you both up and about. How are you feeling?”  
  
“All right,” Matthew begins, and Alfred nods in agreement. Jim`s eyes soften.  
  
“It`s nice to finally meet you in person Alfred.”  
  
Beside him, Matthew feels Alfred`s leg start to bounce up and down the way it usually does when he was nervous or excited about something. The short bark of a laugh his brother responds with makes it clear just which of those two it is. He could place Alfred`s nervous laugh from half a continent away.  
  
“You too. Mattie says you`ve done a lot to help us out. To help our people out. Thank you,” Alfred says, and it`s clear he means it. “I – I mean it. We owe you big time.”  
  
“You`re welcome,” Jim says, and silence drifts over the room for a bit. Finally, Mohawk breaks it, clearing her throat.  
  
“My apologies,” Onondaga says, exchanging a look of his own with his sister. “But the matter we`re here to discuss?”  
  
“Yes.” Jim nods, setting some papers down on the table. “The fate of the United States of America and of Canada.”  
  
Matthew feels Alfred stiffen and for a long moment, he forgets how to breathe.  
  
“Wait, what about us?” he hears himself ask as if from a long ways away. “We`re still here, aren`t we? What about us?”  
  
He swallows down the panic he can hear rising in his voice. The screech of Alfred`s chair is loud in his ears as his brother moves closer.  
  
“What he said,” Alfred seconds, a stubborn look on his face. He shoots Jim a challenging look, but the man meets it, his gaze steady and even.  
  
“There are talks in progress,” Jim begins in reply, “-talks about what to do now. Where to go from here, as it were. A lot of people are talking about reaching out to other nations, re-establishing contact, but frankly, you`re just not ready for that yet. The people aren`t ready. The governments are too fragmented, too scattered. God forbid someone over there gets it in their head to take advantage of the situation here… Right now, we`re in no shape to resist. We need a stable government, and not just for the tribes, but for everyone. The people need something to look towards, and hold onto. Until you two get yourselves sorted out, they can`t do that.”  
  
As Matthew meets Jim`s gaze, he is brought back to the first time they had met. Once again, the man seems to be peering deep inside, into all the dark shadowy corners that make him up. Alfred holds himself stiffly, and Matthew knows he feels the same. It is as if he`s looking into them, and seeing things even they are unaware of. Matthew shivers, and understands why they call this man Orenda.  
  
“So what do we need to do?” Alfred asks, his voice faint. Matthew shivers, feeling the spell of their boss` gaze wash away.  
  
Onondaga answers this time. “When the harvest comes, appointed representatives from each region will as well. They will try to come to some agreement as to reestablishing strong central governments for you. Before that time, the two of you will need to be ready.” He nods at his brothers and sisters. “We have agreed. Each of you will undertake a vision quest. You will find what you need then… or you will not.”  
  
It takes Matthew a minute to process this. A vision quest was usually undertaken as a coming of age, a journey of self-discovery and the discovery of one`s totems, though he and Alfred already had their totems. It was a rite of passage, and, it seemed, a matter of life or – or –  
  
Matthew swallows hard, as Alfred jerks back. His chair hits the ground loudly behind him. “What?! You can`t mean that!” He looks wildly around the table, eyes glaring into one face after another. “You want to decide what happens to us with a – a – a vision quest? How can you? These are our lives you`re talking about! And to find out whether we get to live or die is all about sending us off into the wilderness to see if we have some dream about Rabbit or whatever?!”  
  
“Polar bear.”  
  
“What?” Alfred turns on him, blue eyes wide and wild, his chest heaving. Matthew thinks he looks like a rabbit then. A frightened one.  
  
Matthew licks his suddenly dry lips, replying in a whisper. “My totem. Polar bear.”  
  
“I know that,” Alfred shouts, but Matthew knows his brother isn`t angry at him. “I didn`t forget,” Al continues, his voice dropping. “I know that. But – but, the point is – the point is -! Well, it`s superstitious nonsense, isn`t it?”  
  
Matthew doesn`t have a reply, and in his silence, Alfred throws his hands up in the air and stalks out. He remains sitting there, listening to his own breathing and looking down at the table.  
  
“Matthew,” Jim says, not unkindly, and he looks up with a growl.  
  
“Don`t,” he snaps. “He`s right. A vision quest to decide our fates? That`s ridiculous!”  
  
“That`s not it at all Matthew,” Onondaga begins、wanting to explain but Matthew isn`t having any of it.  
  
“Isn`t it? You can`t figure out what to do with us, so you send off us on a bit of ridiculous superstitious nonsense, and say from there it`s up to us. And in the meantime, you`ll just happen to be meeting with representatives from all of our governments. Like we`re supposed to believe that!”  
  
“You are much like your brother,” Mohawk observes quietly.  
  
Matthew`s hands clench into fists. “I am nothing like him,” he announces loudly. He shoves back out of his chair so hard that it clangs against the floor, hitting against Alfred`s. He ignores it. Mohawk raises an eyebrow at him and he feels rage surge white-hot inside of him. “I`m not!”  
  
She shakes her head. “You look the same, you sound the same. You share the same blood. But more than that, you often think the same. The same policies, the same blind spots, the same broken promises, the same tired excuses.” She links her hands together. “You march in lockstep, and pitch a fit when one of you falls out of synch.”  
  
Matthew grinds his teeth. “That`s not true! Al and I may look alike sure, but we`re nothing alike otherwise! He`s the one who doesn`t think, who never considers others.”  
  
“ He looks to you for approval you know. He always has,” she says. Matthew scoffs.  
  
“You know that`s not true. Al`s never needed anyone`s approval but his own. He`s always said as much!”  
  
“What your brother says and what he does are often very different things,” Mohawk continues, her voice perfectly even. “Will you continue to use him as your excuse Matthew, as your cover?”  
  
If Matthew had been at full strength, he suspects he would have put his hand right through the table. As it is, he only bruises his knuckles, but at least the loud sound of it echoing through the room is satisfying. “I do not!”  
  
As if tired of him, Mohawk`s voice turns cutting. “You do. You shout about how you two are different, while your actions mirror his, and you slip away quietly because the world`s eyes are on him. And while you complain about that, it allows you to pretend that your own hands are clean in comparison, because no one notices the marks they leave behind when his are there to cover them up.”  
  
No words come to answer her, because his anger boils them away before they can make it out of his mouth. Instead, Matthew kicks the chairs out of his way. He stalks to the exit, feeling their eyes on him and hating it. When Jim calls after him, he ignores the man, except to slam the door shut behind him as loudly as he can.  
  
Matthew doesn`t return to their cabin until late that night. Instead, he spends much of the afternoon stalking about the woods like an angry bull moose. Even Kumajirou seems to want little to do with him, choosing to dangle his hand in the small forest stream and study the minnows there rather than deal with his companion`s anger. The evening breeze doesn`t cool his fury so much as chill it, and allow it to sink down into the pit of his stomach. He can feel it simmering there even as he returns.  
  
Alfred is in bed, but not asleep, although he pretends to be. But Matthew recognizes the way he holds himself under the covers, the tension in his shoulders and the difference in the sound of his breathing. He is too furious to even look at his brother long though. Although it was Mohawk`s words that set him off, the comparison stung, and much of his anger is directed at Alfred. He doesn`t care much at this point whether that`s fair or not, just grabs a hold of his cot and yanks it away. He ignores the way Alfred shifts, curling in tighter about himself, and instead sets his bed up as far away from his twin`s as he can. Still, it is a long time before sleep claims him, and he stares up into the blackness above him, determinedly thinking of nothing at all until it does.  
  
When he sleeps at last, he dreams once more of broken eggs shells, but this time the fragments are dusted with a powder of snow.  
  
  
  
 **Notes:**  
Vision quests and totems are shared pieces of culture among many indigenous tribes of North America, including the Iroquois. For the purposes of this story, Alfred’s totem is, as said, the rabbit while Matthew’s is the polar bear. There are several reasons for this, but I did feel they do suit the boys. The rabbit symbolizes fear but also quick thinking, movement, and being productive. The Polar bear’s aggression may not seem to fit with Matthew, but it’s also a symbol for strength in the face of adversity and being a good provider.  
  
The bit about Alfred looking to Matthew for approval? Recent surveys conducted by the US-Canada Institute show that most Americans DO believe Canada`s opinion plays a significant role in what the US government decides. Most Canadians however, believe it`s a much smaller role. I choose to interpret this as America looking up to his brother and wanting his respect, while Canada is unaware of this.  
  
I don`t mean for anything in this to be bashing Canada, or excusing America. However, Canada does seem to have largely escaped international criticism despite being guilty of many of the same things the US is, by virtue of (sorry Canada) being lesser known.


	8. Cracks

**Chapter 8 – Cracks**  
  
They don`t talk much the next morning. Alfred makes an attempt, but the conversation is stilted and awkward. Matthew makes pancakes for breakfast, hoping his favorite food will improve his mood, but Mohawk`s words haunt him and sit heavy on his stomach. As if the unease is contagious, Alfred too only picks at his, which makes Matthew feels worse. Most of the stack goes to Kumajirou.  
  
“We don`t have to do it. We could run away.” Matthew is surprised to hear the words coming from him. They sound like something Alfred would say. Apparently, his twin is just as shocked because he stares at Matthew, speechless.  
  
“Where would we go?” he asks at last.  
  
Matthew considers. “To Juan,” he ventures, but Alfred is already shaking his head and his shoulders slump in agreement. “No, that`s right. He left us here in the first place. He`d send us right back. To Europe then?”  
  
Alfred chokes on his coffee. “To Europe?” he sputters. “To who? You heard Jim. Do we really trust anyone there to help us and not… not try to take advantage?”

  
“Y-yes,” Matthew ventures but Alfred frowns and slams his cup down.

“Dammit Mattie, think about it! I know England was good to you. But don`t you remember how much he hated it when the sun finally did set on him? He denies it, but deep down, he wants his empire back. They all do!”

Matthew purses his lips, and pries the empty coffee mug free, carrying it to the sink to wash. “I miss them, that`s all,” he admits, his back to Alfred. “Don`t you?”

“Ye-es…” Alfred answers, and Matthew can hear the hesitation in his voice. “Sorta. Some of them. I mean, I do. I miss Japan a lot, and Poland, and En – Well, yeah, of course I do. But you remember how France was always getting on my case, no matter what I did? And England, he`d get all mad at me for not including him in EVERYTHING, and god forbid if I hung out with someone else and didn`t invite him along. And even Japan, saying he wanted to work together, and then changing his mind every five seconds so that we could never get anything done. And it was just like… I was always being accused of doing too much, and of not doing enough at the same time, and it`s exhausting Matt! I just – I hate that this happened, I do. But, uh, isn`t it sorta… Sorta nice to have a break for a bit?”

“You`re a coward!” Matthew slams the mug down so hard it cracks. He ignores it though, in favor of whirling around to confront his twin. “You`re running away because you tried to save the world and you lost, and you`re too damn scared to face up to that. And because everyone is going to know it too. You won`t be able to manipulate them and get them to fight your battles for you anymore. But hey, if you had minded your own business in the first place, you wouldn`t have had so many stupid battles to fight! But no~o, you had to go and poke your nose everywhere!”

“Mattie?” Alfred is standing now, a lost look on his face as he chews on his lip. The hurt emanates from him, but Matthew can`t stop himself from twisting it deeper.

“Trying to be the hero, and then running away every time it didn`t turn out to be as fun and heroic as you wanted it to be. You`re such a big baby Al! Poor, scared little bunny rabbit who got too big for his britches and got in trouble because of it. Why don`t you crawl back into your burrow and hide then? Or can`t you even do that right?”

Alfred sniffles, obviously fighting back tears. Matthew`s always been able to make him cry, and he`s always been darkly content about that. He doesn`t feel that way now, but it`s too late to take the words back. Alfred takes a hesitant step backwards and mumbles something about having to use the bathroom. He practically runs for the toilet, and Matthew isn`t surprised to hear muffled sobs coming from within. He slumps against the sink, feeling small and mean and tired. Kumajirou looks at him and he glares back.

“Don`t look at me that way,” he snaps at the bear. He hates Alfred then, for making him feel that way, and hates himself more. He tosses the pieces of the broken mug out with disgust and scoops up his things for the day before stalking out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him.


	9. Guilt

Chapter 9 – Guilt

“In the beginning,” Onondaga begins the story, “there was no fire and the earth was cold. Then the Thunderbirds sent their lightning to a sycamore tree on an island where the Weasels lived. The Weasels were the only ones who had fire and they would not give any of it away.”

The children creep closer to the storyteller, Alfred along with them, their eyes wide and faces anxious. He has a blanket thrown over his shoulders as a ward against the faint chill in the evening air. Across the room, Matthew watches his brother. They haven`t spoken since that morning, each working on opposite ends of the field and eating their lunches alone. There had been a few odd looks at dinner when they had sat as far from each other as possible instead as side-by-side as usual, but no one had said anything.

Onondaga pauses the story for a moment, clearly in his element. Then, when the anticipation in the room has risen to what he judges to be an acceptable level, he continues.

"`How shall we obtain fire?` the people asked. Most of the animals were afraid of the Weasels because they were bloodthirsty and ate mice and moles and fish and birds. Rabbit was the only one who was brave enough to try to steal fire from them. `I can run and swim faster than the Weasels,` he said. `I am also a good dancer. Every night the Weasels build a big fire and dance around it. Tonight I will swim across and join in the dancing. I will run away with some fire.`"

Alfred`s expression is shuttered, his mouth a tight line. He pulls the blanket tighter about his shoulders, rising without a word. Matthew looks at their uncle, who hasn`t paused in his story, but whose eyes are focused on Alfred. Alfred spins on his heel, and stalks out of the lodge. Matthew swallows, unsure what he should do. He looks back at their uncle again. Their eyes met, and the sadness in the depths of his uncle`s gaze that shakes him. He pushes himself up on his feet, wavering unsteadily on them for a moment, then hurries out after his twin.

“Al,” he calls out, running after him. His brother ignores him and keeps walking, forcing Matthew to pick up his pace. “Alfred!”

His brother slows and then stops at last, holding his blanket about him like a shield. Matthew stumbles to a halt, hands dropping to his knees as he battles to catch his breath. Here on the outskirts of the village, it`s quiet, save for the crickets and the occasional howl of a dog. The sky`s colors are beginning to deepen and the low beams of the sun glow red on Alfred`s face.

“What was that all about?” Matthew demands to know when his breathing finally returns to normal. He expects Alfred to whirl on him with a sharp retort, and so is left in shock when his brother instead collapses to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

Matthew creeps forward cautiously, stopping and kneeling in front of his twin. His hands close gently around Alfred`s wrists and he slowly pulls them away. “Al?”

Alfred chokes down a sob, his lashes wet with the tears he tries to blink away. He scrubs his cheek on his shoulder. “It`s nothing,” he says quickly, obviously lying. Matthew raises an eyebrow at him and waits. Finally, reluctantly, he speaks again.

“I – I wanted to help people too. That`s all. I wanted to help them, like Rabbit. But I – I – “ Alfred chokes a little, his throat pulses as he swallows down another sob. The tears begin again, and with Matthew holding his hands still, this time he can`t cover them up. “This is all my fault! I made those – those things instead, and I used them. I just wanted Japan to stop, that`s all. I wanted everyone to just stop fighting. I thought maybe – maybe --… But then, then it just got worse, and I couldn`t get rid of them and – Oh, Mattie!”

Matthew doesn`t know what to say as Alfred falls into his arms so he sits there silently, stroking his twin`s hair.

“I tried, I did!” Alfred protests, the words and tears spilling out of him. “But every time I just made things worse, didn`t I? I`m no good at anything! You`re right, I can`t do anything right. And everyone hates me for it, and it`s all my fault and – and – it hurts! It hurts so much! How did Japan bear it?” He sniffs. “All those people – our people – and they`re dead because of me.”

“Shh, shh,” Matthew tries to soothe him, holding Alfred close and rocking him as if he were a small child, but he only cries harder.

“I’m sorry Mattie. I’m so sorry,” he sobs over and over again, and it`s breaking Matthew`s heart.

“Stop it,” he orders. Then again, desperately, pressing a fierce kiss to the back of his brother`s head. “Alfred, stop it. You`re not! You`re not like that at all!”

He tugs Alfred out of his lap, forcing him to sit upright. Matthew cups his cheeks firmly between his hands, so that he can look straight into those summer sky blue eyes, as if he can imprint his words through sight. “You`re not,” he repeats firmly. “You – you`re beautiful and brilliant and good.” Alfred starts to shake his head but Matthew won`t let him. “You are. Who else would have helped Japan back up like that, not to mention Germany and all the others? Every time Al, every time you tried and you kept trying. Yes, you made mistakes, but you always kept trying. You always cared, sometimes too much.”

Matthew gives a little laugh at that, hearing the edge of tears in his own voice. “You did,” he continues, trampling over Alfred`s words whenever he tries to protest. “And you`re smart too, really you are. Naïve a lot, yeah, but I`ve seen you. You can never stop asking questions, and you always want to know more. You love figuring things out, and I love watching you. You – you shine then.”

Matthew swallows hard. “And you`re beautiful,” he says, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper. Alfred has stopped trying to argue but he still looks away when Matthew lets his hands drop. “Like the sun and the stars,” he adds, his voice wistful. “Shining so brightly it hurts to look at you too long.”

Matthew squeezes his eyes and fists shut, his nails digging into his palm. He knows he`s said too much. But Alfred`s head thuds against his shoulder and all he can do is heave out a shaky sigh of relief.

“Come on,” Alfred says after a while. “Let`s go back.”

They need to lean on each other as they stand, both of their legs wobbly as a newborn calf`s. Somehow they manage to make it back to their cabin, although Matthew isn`t sure how. Alfred falls right into bed, and pulls Matthew with him and over him.

“I love you Mattie,” he says, his voice subdued but earnest. “I – “

Whatever else he would have said is lost as Matthew kisses him into silence and keeps kissing him until there is nothing that can be said at all.

***

When Matt emerges from the cabin, the stars are beginning to show their faces. Mohawk`s however, is half-hidden by the shadows. He swallows, and she turns, the lantern illuminating her impassive expression.

“He`s sleeping now,” Matthew says hurriedly. Of all of them, why did she have to be the one to check up on them? Thankfully, she turns to leave, but Matthew isn`t prepared for the way something inside of him drops at the sight of her walking away. He stumbles after her before he can think twice about it, Alfred`s confession haunting him. “Wait!”

She pauses, tilting her head toward him. The ache inside of Matthew twitches, and he wishes he had Kumajirou with him. But the bear is watching over Alfred, and if wishes were horses, well…

“I`m – I`m sorry.” The words rip out of him, and he half-chokes on them, but they are only the beginning of the flood. Once he has begun, he finds, he is unable to finish. “I`m so sorry. For everything. I did so many awful things. To you, to the others, and – and – I did them. I lied and stole and – and the schools and the camps and I tried to pretend I was better than that…” It felt like his heart was ripping out of his chest but he couldn`t stop. “But I wasn`t. And, what`s worse, is people believed it and I – I – I …”

At some point, Matthew realizes he is sobbing like a small child. He drops to his knees as the tears and sobs shake him apart. After a moment, warm arms enfold him. He sobs harder at that, but they only squeeze tighter – marked by age and a hard life, but strong despite it.

“Child, child,” his aunt hums. “You are still our child. Our children still, the both of you.”

Matthew cries in her arms as she rocks him, cooing snippets of old lullabies. His admission of guilt surges through him and out of him, and by the time his tears dry out, an imprint of it is all that is left, a fossil-like impression in his heart to remind him of where it had once sat. Through it, his aunt holds him, smelling of leather and fall leaves, until he is able to stand.

When Matthew is back on his feet at last, Mohawk smiles up at him and pats his cheeks dry. He sniffs and manages the tiniest hint of a smile for her. It is worth it, to see the way her eyes soften and crinkle. She nods, giving his hands one last squeeze before leaving.

Matthew watches her go, struck by how small she seems, and yet how warm his hands still feel. Then he returns to the cabin, shooing Kumajirou out of the bed. He picks up his cot and carries it back, setting it beside his twin`s and slipping in beside him. He curls about Alfred, burying his nose in the nape of his neck and breathing deeply, until the scent of him and the rhythm of Alfred`s breathing soothes him to sleep.

Notes:

Full text of Onondaga’s story: http://www.ilhawaii.net/~stony/lore61.html


	10. Quest

**Chapter 10 – Quest**  
  
Matthew draws in a shaky breath as Mohawk helps him tie the laces. It has been a long time since he wore clothes like this. It isn`t even the practice anymore, but he does it this time, because his aunt feels it`s important. Important for him to wear them, to remember where he came from, she says, so that he can see where he will go. And so he does, deer skin leggings and breechcloth both, his chest bare except for a small medicine bag and the paint his aunt applies.  
  
“Do you understand?” she asks, her fingers unexpectedly gentle. “You and your brother were angry with us, but this is more than our decision.” She sighs. “We don`t send you on this quest lightly, or because we want a quick and easy answer as to what will become of you. That is beyond our power. This – it is our last hope. We have tried to care for you and teach you. But this journey, this fate, is beyond us. You must find your own way from here.”  
  
Matthew sucks in a deep breath as he listens to her, truly listens for once. And now he at last understands what they had been trying to tell Alfred and him; without this quest, they are doomed. They are dying, have been dying. Now that he is no longer fighting against that denial, he can feel it. There is a fever in his body still, a lingering weakness. He`s become disconnected from the part of himself that is Canada, the bond between him, his lands, and his people a tenuous, gossamer thread, and he cannot hope to survive like that. Their aunts and uncles have done all they could to anchor himself and his brother to this world – given them care, work to sink themselves into, stories to entertain them, and peace to recover in. But none of it was enough on its own. This vision quest was his. Maybe, just maybe, the altered state of consciousness the quest was supposed to bring with it would be enough to help Matthew reconnect with himself, to heal his fractured psyche, to retie those precious threads that made him what he was.  
  
 _Maybe._ But that was up to him. Matthew understands now, what they had meant. Either he will find the means to do that within himself or, if he does not, he will die. Nations are not immortal. Sooner or later, the last remnants of Canada will fade away, and he will die. Alfred too, and that thought scares him, because Alfred isn`t coming with him. He had seen him leaning against the wall in the back of the meeting room when Matthew had announced he was prepared to leave on his vision quest and Mohawk had backed him up, but his eyes had wandered for a moment and when he`d looked back, Alfred had already vanished.  
  
He hasn`t seen his brother since then. Alfred leaves traces of his presence in the cabin, but he hasn`t been sleeping there, and he certainly hasn`t bothered to leave any messages. Matthew would be irritated by that instead of merely worried had he not kept flashing back to that night. _I love you_ , Alfred had said, his voice still hoarse from crying. And Matthew hadn`t answered.  
  
He looks for Alfred as he takes his leave of the village. He is surprised to receive warm farewells and wishes of success from his aunts and uncles but sadly less so to see no trace of a head of tousled wheat-colored hair. Matthew gives Kumajirou a tight hug before passing the bear off to Mohawk. It would be nice to have his old companion`s company, but he knows he has to do this alone. After the last of the farewells, he hesitates, lingering for as long as he can at the edge of the woods. But at last there is no more time, and he turns, forcing himself not to look back.  
  
Matthew sets off through the woods, and heads north and east, heading for the mountains. He wants higher ground, and the chill winds that come with it. The cold has never bothered him like it does Alfred and he hopes it will help clear his mind.  
  
He is unused to moccasins, and his feel ache after a day of hiking in them. He does remember wearing them as a child, or even going barefoot, but that was a long time ago. Still, the pain is a welcome distraction. It keeps him from admitting that he`s worried. He is far from sure he can pull this off. He has no idea what he`s even looking for.  
  
After a couple of days of moving north, Matthew finds a spot he`s satisfied with. It`s not a high mountain, but it stands a little apart from the others. The east face of it is rocky, and one outcropping on the ledge provides him with an unobstructed view of the valley below. The rocks themselves aren`t sheltered, but there is a small corpse of trees not far behind them and a rickety shack left from a long ago abandoned ranger station.  
  
Matthew sinks onto the rocks gratefully, his feet and legs aching. He has water, but not much in the way of food. His stomach rumbles, and he`s tempted to dig into it, but he`s supposed to be fasting; the food is for his return, if he is able to make it. Tempting as it is to cheat, he forces himself to his feet and ties the bag of food up on a high tree branch, to keep it out of reach of foraging animals. Then, with a deep breath, he settles back onto the rocks, closes his eyes, and waits.  
  
It doesn`t take very long for him to feel utterly ridiculous. He keeps peeking his eyes open, then determinedly shutting them again. He tries listening to the birds and the wind, then tries to ignore it. He fidgets against the rock, his comfortable seat growing less so the longer he sits there.  
  
Matthew groans, opening his eyes. “This is ridiculous,” he complains to the trees and shrubs. Sighing heavily, he stares out at the woods below him. Here and there, small clearings indicate houses, but he hadn`t met anyone on the way here. He wonders if any of them are still inhabited.  
  
He closes his eyes again and breathes in the scent of dirt and pine. The raspberries and blackcaps are out as well; their tart smell wafts his way on occasion. He thinks he may have wandered over into his own lands, judging from the familiar tingle on his arms. He can usually tell, but the border between him and Al has always been a little blurry, and in the past two decades it`s become even more vague and fuzzy. He`s somewhere on it now, he knows that much, but it`s impossible to be sure on just what side.  
  
It`s close enough though. Now that he`s thinking about it, he can feel them. The rocks underneath of him of course, but also the dirt under them, then more rocks under that. The bones of the mountain, his bones, stretching into the earth, rubbing up against his brother`s. He aches to do the same for a moment, wants to run back and grab Al and press them tight together, until no air can pass between them and even the boundary of their skin feels fuzzy, until they`re as close and as near to one as they`re supposed to be. As they are.  
  
The wind shifts, carrying a bit of the north with it, and Matthew`s mind abruptly switches tracks. North then, into his own lands. They stretch out to the east and west as well, but for now he`s stretching north and more north. His own forests, growing thicker and darker than his brother`s as deciduous trees give way to evergreens, until even the evergreens begin to thin as the ground becomes more and more frozen. Half-asleep, Matthew dreams of snow on the tundra, the sun reflecting off of it bright enough to blind.  
  
Time begins to swirl by him like snow flurries. He is aware of it at first, of the feeling of the warm spot of sun on his skin slipping lower and lower until it is completely gone. His body shivers instinctually as night falls, but Matthew registers it as if something happening to someone else, in a place far away. He wants to wonder at that, but the days of hiking on an empty stomach want nothing to do with such contemplation.  
  
He slithers lightly along the snow and although he should be as frozen as the river beside him, he doesn`t feel the cold. His silver scales are near invisible against the sunlit snow and he revels in this. He is hungry, and camouflaged as he is, no prey will see him, nor any predators. He is safe, and he knows he will feed soon.  
  
Up ahead, he sees a mound of snow and near it, a rabbit nuzzling at a tiny bit of green. Its ears are cocked, alert for danger, but it is far more preoccupied with trying to keep its belly filled, a tricky task in the Artic. Its white winter coat camouflages it almost as well as himself, but that little black nose and blue, sky-bright eyes give it away.  
  
His tongue darts out, tasting the air. Yes, he can have this one. Slowly, cautiously, he moves closer. The rabbit twitches, cocking its head to the side but after a moment, it goes back to its meal. Had he lips, he might have smiled. Instead, he strikes, fangs darting out to close tight about the rabbit`s spine. He wraps about it tightly, feeling the panic-fast beat of its heart.  
  
Suddenly, the mound moves, and it is no mound at all. Eyes smooth and black as obsidian stare down at him, the great bear`s face impassive. He lifts his head and hisses, unwilling to give up his prey. He stares back, and has the most bewildering feeling of suddenly being in two places at one. He squeezes tighter about the rabbit, glancing down at it momentarily. Its blue eyes whirl about in their sockets as it shakes and spasms.  
  
Wait.  
  
Blue eyes?  
  
Horrified, Matthew drops the rabbit, quickly slithering back. It lies still on the ground, the snow about it dyed pink and red. He can still taste that blood in his mouth. The polar bear settles down on its haunches, watching.  
  
Matthew feels himself split, and writhes against it, his skin tearing. It sheds off of him, silver scales dropping silently against the snow until he is left naked and shivering, arms wrapped around himself. The air stings his lungs as he gasps, and the snow is so cold that it burns the bare skin of his legs. He feels exposed. He IS exposed, and the rabbit is bleeding out in front of him.  
  
Ignoring the polar bear, he scrambles forward on his hands and knees, his mind awash in panic.  
  
“Al, Al!” he gasps, hands trembling over the rabbit`s body. It quivers, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of gold under the blood-stained fur. Fingers shaking, he nudges it aside. More gold gleams, and suddenly he is yanking fur out in handfuls, drawing deep, desperate gulps of air, uncaring of the ice tearing at his lungs. Soon a long golden-scaled snake is lying there, as still and unmoving as the rabbit had been.  
  
Matthew`s breath comes in heavy sobs now, and he keeps at it. Finally the snake skin falls away, and his brother is lying there, blue eyes lifeless and his skin like ice. Matthew`s tears are frozen to his cheeks.  
  
Something heavy nudges him, and he struggles to raise his head. He stares back into the voids of the polar bear`s eyes, its face only inches from his. He sniffles, and the bear settles back again, but another comes out from behind it.  
  
This bear is smaller, its muzzle shaped differently, but for some reason he doesn`t recognize Kumajirou until he speaks.  
  
“Is this what you wanted?” Kumajirou asks him.  
  
“I – what? No!” He shakes his head furiously. “No, no! Why would I want this?”  
  
The Kermode looks down at his brother`s body. “No one will mistake you for him now,” he observes, and Matthew wants to scream. He would, if he could summon the strength. Instead, he gathers Alfred`s body into his lap and holds it tight. He had. He had wanted to be recognized, for people to look at him the way they looked at his brother, but better. More amazed, like he was someone great and noble, and known and respected for it throughout the world. As great as his brother, or greater even.  
  
It`s what he wanted once, wanted so bad he could have tasted it as vividly as he can still taste the blood in his mouth. Alfred`s blood. He feels sick.  
  
“No, no, no,” he chants, rocking back and forth in the snow. Alfred is heavy, no more than a block of ice in his arms, yet still he pulls him closer. “Not like this. I don`t want it, not if this is the price. I don`t!”  
  
Kumajirou tilts his head to the side. “Who?” he asks.  
  
Matthew opens his mouth to reply, and realizes he has no answer. He freezes in shock. The polar bear growls, rising and stalking towards him. It shows its teeth now, sharp and strong, teeth that can tear seals apart and certainly won`t struggle with him. Kumajirou watches.  
  
Matthew`s breath hitches. His first instinct is to run, but Alfred`s body is too heavy and he won`t leave him. Resigned, he closes his eyes and buries his face in his brother`s hair. It still smells like him. He hears the polar bear moving closer and squeezes his eyes tighter. He remembers…  
  
 _Winters like this one, sweeping over the lands. A woman with dark hair and kind eyes tucking soft fur about him as he kicks and babbles. There is something sad in those eyes as she holds his hands for a moment but he is too little to understand it. He gurgles, content in his ignorance, rolling over to find another set of fingers as small and pudgy as his, and he happily sucks on them in place of his own._  
  
He remembers…  
  
 _Pale men with speech that sounds like a song, who shiver in the cold but still go out in it every day to check their traps. They fascinate him, with hair the color of buttercups that grows almost everywhere on them – on their arms and chins and chests and legs. At night, strange smells come from their cabin and he hides near the windows to smell them better._  
  
He remembers…  
  
 _Fighting, and turmoil, and people shouting. Aching, like he`s being torn in half because this part of him wants to be British and the other French. Then it`s settled suddenly, and part of him still grumbles but in a quiet voice. There is a phantom pain left behind, but it eases with time and careful treatment.  
  
Being split again, or it feels like it anyway. A mirror image of himself, but not, and a third of the continent in rebellion or revolution, depending on which side you`re on. He wants to cling to that mirror image of himself, but it carries a rifle and a defiant streak an ocean wide, and in the end, it breaks free.  
  
Fire in his chest, two capitals burning, two matching scars.  
  
Waiting at the end of the Railroad, his brother handing off passengers, stepping off with wide eyes barely believing they`re free, free at last.  
  
Playing his first hockey game, lost in the feeling of flying across the ice.  
  
The first taste of independence – just a hint of it, fleeting and terrifying and sweet.  
  
Called into service in foreign lands, sweating and stinking in trenches in foreign dirt. Blood and gunfire and the stench haunting his dreams.  
  
Hunger, fever, drought.  
  
War again, then at last, when there hardly seemed to be hope for it, peace. A real peace.  
  
That peace didn`t last forever, but the next time war came, he fought in his own name, made peace in his own name, and protected it under his own colors for the very first time. Red and white, and the maple leaf emblazoned upon it, and he remembers the pride that swelled in him then._  
  
“Canada.” It`s a whisper at first, barely stirring the strands of wheat-blond hair, but it becomes louder, stronger. “Canada.” He is Matthew still, but he is something else as well. A land, a people, a culture. He is like and unlike his brother. He has his own victories, his own failures, his own scars and sins and joys. His own identity. It swells within him, the knowledge of it, until it escapes him in a shout. He lifts his head, staring fiercely back into the eyes of the advancing polar bear. “I`m Canada!”  
  
The bear halts, teeth gleaming mere inches from his face. Canada gazes back at it calmly. The bear`s lips slip closed over its teeth then, and it gives itself a shake. It looks like a snow-covered mountain hit by an earthquake, but then the polar bear sits, watching him curiously.  
  
Alfred`s body is gone. Strangely enough, Canada feels no wonder at this. He stands, dressed now, wearing his favorite red hoodie, and feels no surprise at this either. He walks up to the bear, and there is no fear in him as he reaches out to pet its nose. It nuzzles him back, and he hears paws pad up to his side.  
  
“Who?” Kumajirou asks again.  
  
He laughs and the sound of it echoes through the north. “I`m Canada,” he replies easily.  
  
Miles and miles away, Canada`s eyes snap open. His butt hurts from sitting so long on the rocks. The sky is still dark, a faint line of pink just beginning to hug the horizon. He laughs as he had in his vision, just to hear it. Then he crawls up towards the trees and curls up on the softer ground there. He closes his eyes, and this time he sleeps for real, and dreams of maple trees and a kind and free people who stand on guard while he sleeps.


	11. Homecoming

Chapter 11 – Homecoming

Laughing children almost bowl him over when he returns, too caught up in their game of tag to notice him until it`s too late. Canada laughs himself, helping the little boy up and sending him back to his game. Mohawk is seated outside on a porch, Kumajirou on her lap. Her face is composed, but she stands immediately upon seeing him, and Canada knows then she had been worried.

“I`m back,” he greets with a tired but proud smile. Kumajirou rambles over to him and he sinks down, wrapping his arms around the Kermode.

“Who?” the bear asks, and Canada swears he sees a glitter of humor in his eyes.

“I`m Canada,” he answers easily, standing back up. Mohawk nods in approval, then gives a squawk of surprise when Canada reaches for her and pulls her into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he whispers into her ear before releasing her. She smiles and nods, then quickly turns away, but not before he catches the hint of moisture in her eyes.

“Back, and just as much a dawdler as ever,” she chides without any heat. “Come on. We need to get some food in you before you waste away, and then the others will want to know you`ve returned as well.”

Canada follows, Kumajirou at his side. The silly smile doesn`t seem to want to leave his face; it sits there as he greets each of his aunts and uncles in turn, shaking hands and chatting excitedly with the villagers, eager to hear what`s happened in the days he`s been gone.

The representatives have been meeting he`s told, and the village is abuzz in speculation. The harvest is good, and they are holding a lacrosse game to celebrate. The excitement of it all washes over him, and so it takes a while before he realizes he has yet to spot a tall blond with bright blue eyes among the crowd. His smile fades from his face, anxiousness welling up as he scans the milling people.

“Where`s Alfred?” he asks interrupting the chatter of his aunts and uncles. As one, they fall silent. Tuscarora’s eyes fall to the ground, but it is Onondaga who answers him.

“He left shortly after you, in the night. He said nothing to any of us, but Tuscarora saw him go.”

“I called after him,” Tuscarora says, “-but he wouldn`t stop and I could see he was carrying a bag with him. It hurt him, I think, or his pride at least, to know you were off on your quest while he had been left behind.”

Oh, Alfred… Canada thinks, his heart sinking.

“We believe he left to try his own vision quest,” Onondaga concludes, his face grave. “We pray for his success but… he has yet to return.”

“The harvest is not yet over,” Seneca points out. “We will wait.”

There is nothing else to do, and so they wait. Canada waits as well, and barely dares to hope. Instead, he does his best to keep busy. There is plenty to do. With the meetings, there are more mouths to feed than ever, and there is the harvest to bring in. Jim arrives, and when he has a free moment, he comes to Canada, to keep him informed on the progress or lack thereof and often to ask his advice. Although he doubts the man truly needs it, Canada is more than happy to share his thoughts. He is more aware of his lands and his people now than he has been since he regained consciousness all those months ago. There is a certain amount of pain that comes with that, but he is happy to bear it. He is himself again, and were it not for the empty space by his side, he would be content.

But that space aches. Alfred`s absence leaves behind a void that feels tangible, and he hates it. He reaches out and there is nothing there. He remembers Mexico`s admonition to look out for their little brother, remembers Alfred`s declaration of love and his own answering silence, and a sour taste wells up in his throat.

His melancholy doesn`t go unnoticed, and almost a week after his own return Oneida and Tuscarora show up on the doorstop of his cabin. They are carrying a lacrosse stick and expressions that say they won`t be easily dissuaded.

“It`s not hockey,” Tuscarora manages to say with a smile, “-but we want you to play with us anyways.”

Canada looks back and forth between the two of them, and accepts the stick with a sigh.

Despite his initial reluctance, he quickly loses himself in the game. It helps, a lot. There is no time to pay attention to that empty space when he is running and throwing and spinning to try and catch the ball with his net. It doesn`t take long before he`s dripping with sweat and grinning, the familiar feeling of adrenaline from a good game shooting through him. It`s not hockey, but it`s a damn good game.

He jumps high into the air, catching the ball and whirling about to find someone to pass it to. But he is surprised to see that all the players have stopped, standing still with their eyes fixed in the distance. Canada falters, lowering his stick as he follows their gazes. What he sees freezes him in place.

It`s Alfred. Tired and dirty and beaming Alfred, walking towards them in torn clothes, clutching something close to his chest. As he comes closer, Canada sees a flash of brown fur and an ear, and at a few more steps he can see the whole of the rabbit as it rests peacefully in his brother`s arms.

He snaps out of it all at once, his brother`s name falling from his lips at the same time he drops the lacrosse stick. Then he is dashing across the field, everyone else forgotten in an instant.

“Al!” he gasps, catching him up in a strong embrace. He feels the vibration of his brother`s laughter and the faint trembling of the rabbit between them.

“Just a sec Mattie,” his brother says, and Canada doesn`t know whether he wants to kiss him or punch him. “Let me put this little guy down. You`re scaring him.”

Canada can barely bring himself to release his brother long enough to allow him to do that, and the moment the rabbit touches the ground he seizes Alfred up in another embrace.

“You idiot!” he hears himself say. There`s something wet running down his cheeks. “You goddamn… I love you, you stupid, gorgeous hoser!”

“Mattie?” Alfred says softly, returning the hug.

Canada pulls back for just a moment. He wipes away the tears staining his cheeks with one hand, keeping the other around Alfred. “I do,” he answers honestly at last. “Don`t you ever make me worry like that again!”

Alfred chuckles. “No, I won`t,” he promises, and his eyes shine as he pulls Canada in for a kiss. Canada wants nothing more than that, but their lips barely touch before he jerks back.

“Al, just a minute!” He rushes to his discarded things, left on the sidelines for the game, digging through them anxiously. He heaves a sigh of relief when he finds his prize unbent. He`d snuck off on the pretense of a fishing trip and almost sprained his ankle in the process, but the eagle feather is a long, smooth arch. The brown in it seems to shimmer in the sunlight, and the white is as bright as snow. The leather string he`d attached to it dangles down with its three beads – red, white, and blue. He`d searched for it and tied the beads and tucked it into his clothes to keep it close, all the time battling the fear he wouldn`t have anyone to hand it to.

Alfred`s eyes widen, but he doesn`t say anything, just stands still and lets his brother tie the feather into his hair. Canada`s hand shakes a little but he tucks it into place and then steps back, an anxious expression on his face.

“Well?” he asks nervously.

America smiles back at him, bright as a cluster of stars.


End file.
